


In the cold light i live, to love and adore you.

by bottlefame_brewglory



Category: The Blacklist (TV) RPF, The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s01e20 The Kingmaker (No. 42), F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 00:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18187538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlefame_brewglory/pseuds/bottlefame_brewglory
Summary: “What happened?” It’s urgent the way he speaks to her, scanning the rest of her body, mapping each limb for injury.She is a breath away from him now, and there are tears welling within her eyes. Without thought his palms are skating up her forearms, drifting over the firm planes of her biceps to rest, to settle, at the base of her skull, fingertips tangling in the soft tresses of her hair.A missing scene in The Kingmaker, where Red discovers the brush with death Lizzie experienced at the hands of their latest Blacklister.





	In the cold light i live, to love and adore you.

**Author's Note:**

> “To feel hurt and to feel joy,  
> Feelings that come from loving you,  
> Situations can change,  
> Between the morning and the night,  
> But our love for each other stays the same,  
> It stays strong; It is constant and it remains true.” – Babaa Mal, There Will Be Time.

“Because as bad as you may think I am, as far as you think I am willing to go to protect that which I hold most dear, _you can’t possibly fathom_ how deep that well of mine _truly goes_.”

Calm and composed, ever the professional, he sits across from Alan Fitch, gunpower in the form of wise council laced across the tip of his tongue, frustration simmering beneath the surface, bleeding into the soft jade of his irises.

“You think you’ve come here simply to say that you can’t help me,” he murmurs, certainty weaving through the smooth molasses of his voice, “But all you’ve done is _ensure_ that when this is all over, I won’t be able to help _you_. When the day inevitably comes that I saddle up with your little alliance, it will be you, Alan, alone in the dark.”

Tension settles into the room, a thick blanket, smothering, _choking_. The threats snarled, the negotiations, the desperation creeping into his bloodstream, scolding and sluicing through the ropey maze of his veins. It’s cloying, this helplessness, even as determination settles into the very _core_ of his being, the monster that thrashes within his ribcage, violence dripping from its gaping maw _awakens_ , can be seen in the twitch beneath his eye, in the way his tongue lolls against the back of his teeth, a snarl barely contained.

Raymond Reddington has survived this long, has hacked through flesh and threats alike, waded into _gore_ and _murder_ , the darkness of the criminal underworld lacing around his ankles, tendrils snaking from the marshy pit below until it burrowed into his soul, filled his lungs with tar, until he _thrived_.

Alan Fitch leaves the room without another word, all broad shoulders and arrogance. The glass beneath Red’s grip is heated, his fingertips tight against the tumbler, the amber liquid within glinting in the low light of the evening.

As his thoughts drift, strategies and plans ricocheting off the inside of his cranium, ever the tactician, Dembe presses a burner into his palm, his voice soft and soothing, hope kindled within his eyes as he murmur’s,

“Agent Keen, for you.”

_The Kingmaker_. A lead. Something to grasp onto, to follow into the sadistic maze being laid out before him, a pawn on the chessboard but no less valuable than a _Queen_ if wielded correctly. And so, it is with something like brusqueness he answers the phone.

“What’ve you got, Lizzie?”

It takes her only a beat to reply.

“The Kingmaker.”

Relief is like a cool balm dousing the ferocious surge of apprehension that had been plaguing Red for weeks, shoulders giving ever so slightly to the tension that had been riddled throughout his muscles, turning taut with adrenaline.

“You have him?” He breathes, and there shouldn’t have been a moment of doubt that Lizzie would fail to excel at her work, even with their relationship teetering on the edge of volatile, _violent_.

If determination hadn’t been coursing throughout his being, running rampant over his mind and senses, if the uncertainty and misgivings of his empire hadn’t been clouding his vision, if the click of the door once Alan Fitch stepped into the night hadn’t have sounded like a _gunshot_ , perhaps Red would have registered the tremor within Lizzie’s voice, the way she sounded _choked_ as she explained how they had captured the Kingmaker.

“Lizzie, listen to me very closely,” he implores, pressing the mobile against his cheek, the device digging into the soft tissue of his temple, “I need you to hold him for me. Ten minutes with him, that’s all I need.”

“Why?”

And he isn’t certain if it is concern laced throughout her voice, or annoyance, but either way it causes a thread of anxiety to tangle around his heart.

_She’s volatile, unpredictable, soft and hard, and soft again._

He is honest with her, tells her of the politician in Prague, of the link between the Kingmaker and whoever is stalking Red’s empire, the funds that led to another chip in his armour, another threat to himself, to _Lizzie_.

“I need to know who commissioned that.”

“That’s not going to be possible.”

Her words, seemingly condescending, causes something to _snap_ within, frustration bubbling from below the surface to weave into his voice, frothing like the sea during a storm, to spread like wildfire across his body, each muscle tensing as he prepares to argue and barter with her once more, Elizabeth Keen as stubborn as she is explosive.

“It’s the _entire reason_ I brought you this case,” and the words feel vicious as they spill from his mouth, tarnished with _anger_.

She is quiet for a moment, the soft puffs of her breath the only sound over the receiver. And Reddington waits, gnawing on the inside of his cheeking, teeth _bruising_ the tender flesh.

When she speaks, her voice is quiet, timid, _the Kingmaker is dead_ , and then decidedly _not_ timid as she calls his name, desperate. It is worry and concern.

“Red? _Red?_ ”

Silence then falls, the connection savagely cut as Red ends the call, throwing back the last of his scotch, relishing in the burn as it glides down his throat, fire filling his insides as rage ripples through his mind and soul.

There is no satisfaction in the tumbler shattering against the hearth, shrapnel spraying along the timber floorboards, it does not soothe the inner turmoil that scolds within, the despair that threatens to encroach upon his vision, bleed into his consciousness like a disease, to sabotage any hope of keeping his head above the crimson tide that is lapping at his waist, his ribs, his _shoulders_.

And when Lizzie comes to him, only an hour later, when she comes rapping at the door, and Dembe walks her to the living room, something peculiar in his gaze, the remains are glinting in the light, her eyes immediately drawn to the massacre.

But his eyes, _Red’s_ eyes, however, are drawn to the field of purple painted across the delicate skin of her neck, the smudges of colour so dark they’re almost _black_. He is moving towards her before Dembe has even exited the room, her eyes widening at his abrupt approach.

“What happened?” It’s urgent the way he speaks to her, scanning the rest of her body, mapping each limb for injury.

She is a breath away from him now, and there are tears welling within her eyes. Without thought his palms are skating up her forearms, drifting over the firm planes of her biceps to rest, to settle, at the base of her skull, fingertips tangling in the soft tresses of her hair.

“ _Lizzie_ ,” and his tone is firm now, as he feels a snarl begin to creep over his features, the night taking more of a toll than he had realised, the tell-tale tick twitching to life along his cheekbone. He see’s the moment she notices the violence that has begun to thrum through his being, the way his muscles have coiled, the rage and _protection_ that is _alive_ , burning, in his eyes.

“Lizzie, who did this?”

She takes a shuddering breath, a single tear rolling down her cheek, and she must be shaken, because this is _Lizzie_ , the woman who dresses for _war_ each day, the woman who strides away from explosions, dodges bullets, brushes off the kiss of knives that stray to close and scab across her ribcages with a breathless laugh, ignores the twinge of broken ribs, the sting of grazed skin and violently tenderised flesh.

“The Kingmaker,” she croaks, “He had me, took me by surprise.”

Dread douses him, makes his body fall slack with the force of it, the iciness of regret swamping his veins, turning his bones brittle. She is gazing up at him, lip caught between her teeth, looking so innocent and _vulnerable_.

Reddington feels _ill_.

“Ressler shot him, to get him off of me,” she whispers between them, remorse bleeding into her voice, “I’m sorry, it shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

And then he is pulling her to him, pressing his cheek to her hair, eyes slipping closed as she sags against him, her own arms snaking around his waist, clinging to the woollen fabric of his blazer. His voice is caught in his throat, cemented with sorrow, so instead he presses a kiss to her temple, takes a moment to compose himself, breathes out the fury of the moments before, breathes in compassion.

“You do not need to apologise, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling away from her, eyes raking her features, settling on her collarbones. A jolt runs through him, picking out each individual digit of the Kingmaker indented into her neck.

She gives him a shaky nod, a watery smile, before taking a step back, looking away from him, glancing around the room and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. It takes him a moment to release her from his grip, to smooth his hands down her back as they drop from the base of her skull.

Alan Fitch has been banished from his mind, the oncoming war but a blip in the maelstrom that swirls within his consciousness. For now, it is only Lizzie that captures his attention, her presence soothing the _rage_ that had threatened to consume him, the rage that had so blindly led him into the guilt that now plagues his bloodstream. Without thought he runs the pad of his thumb along her cheekbone, meets her steady gaze, blue and _knowing_ , as if she is peering into his soul, seeing the torment of his actions.

“Would you care to stay the night, Lizzie?” He offers, a gentle smile following his words, they are still only a breath apart, and he can see the minute sag in her shoulders, the relief awash her features. “I’m sure Dembe has left some ice cream in the freezer, in my experience, that is the best remedy for a sore throat.”

And she laughs, quietly and breathless, at the way he trivialises her injuries, as if she doesn’t know that he will struggle to draw his eyes away from the angry welts lashed upon her person, as if the thought of her fighting for breath, for oxygen, against an iron clamp across her oesophagus doesn’t cause complete and utter _terror_ to lavish his person. As if he won’t wake from a nightmare tonight with her name upon his lips, won’t seek her out in the guest room to reassure himself of her safety.

“If you don’t have Mint Chocolate-Chip I’m going home,” she deadpans, delighting in the soft rumble of his surprised laughter, and the weight of his hand on the small of her back as he guides her to the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> And, let's just pretend that this is how that particular episode ended and Lizzie didn't find out about Red and Sam, yeah?
> 
> I thought up this idea around four hours ago, so I'm sorry if there are any typos or grammatical errors! I hope you enjoyed the read! Please feel free to let me know what you think.


End file.
